


Beginning of a Great Adventure

by thegirlwiththemouseyhair



Category: Velvet Goldmine
Genre: Domestic, Established Relationship, M/M, Post-Canon, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-08 01:42:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5478647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirlwiththemouseyhair/pseuds/thegirlwiththemouseyhair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is partly based on Ewan McGregor's headcanon, expressed in a now-infamous August 2015 Tweet, that Curt and Arthur live happily ever after and run a recording studio in London, sober, kids, etc. The fic got away from that prompt a bit in order to incorporate more of your Yuletide letter, recip. The title comes from a song from Lou Reed's album New York; I have not had this piece beta read, so any editing issues are my own. I hope you enjoy the treat regardless.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Beginning of a Great Adventure

**Author's Note:**

  * For [syllogismos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/syllogismos/gifts).



> This is partly based on Ewan McGregor's headcanon, expressed in a now-infamous August 2015 Tweet, that Curt and Arthur live happily ever after and run a recording studio in London, sober, kids, etc. The fic got away from that prompt a bit in order to incorporate more of your Yuletide letter, recip. The title comes from a song from Lou Reed's album New York; I have not had this piece beta read, so any editing issues are my own. I hope you enjoy the treat regardless.

Curt’s on the phone with Mark McLear, an old producer and friend of his, when Arthur enters the apartment holding a squirming cat like a baby in his arms, and with a bulging plastic bag hanging from one wrist. Curt narrows his eyes, puzzled, but still focused on the call and on the prospect of working behind the scenes in a studio for a change – “it’s an in-house producer gig, not even that common these days,” as Marky said – and of moving back to England, because Marky’s based there.

“Look, I dunno what you thought of me for,” Curt says. It’s an interesting offer, tempting in a way, because his last albums have been hit or miss. With the public wanting, or apparently wanting, squeaky clean, useless, mass-produced pop bullshit, and with his own gnawing fears that’s he has said what he had to say and that he’s really a has-been now, it might not be bad to do something different. On the other hand, he’s not destitute or anything, which is an accomplishment. Much as he hates to admit it, his managers and the accountants and other suits who worked for him probably saved his ass on that front. Somebody did, at any rate. He’s not sure he’s desperate enough to produce the shit he refuses to sing himself, or if he even wants to go back to London. The years he spent there were not the best period in his life.

“Because I think you’d like the bands we work with,” Marky says. Curt snorts, making sure the sound is audible on their long distance call. From the corner of his eye he sees the cat, now free of Arthur’s grip, tear across the floor and into the bedroom. _OK,_ he thinks. _Whatever._ He’s been in much, much weirder situations, in his time.

“Seriously, don’t dismiss them,” Marky adds. “I’m moving on, and I think you’d be good there. We want someone with credibility in the business, you know?”

Curt rolls his eyes and hisses. He hopes Marky heard that, too.

“You can have loads of time to decide. I’ll get a contact in New York to send you some tapes that were done here, okay?”

“Yeah,” Curt replies. “I might not hate _everything_. Thanks.”

He images Marky shaking his head in his London office. “Talk soon.”

“Take care.”

Curt hangs up. Arthur has disappeared into the kitchen to put down his bag of crap, so Curt lights a cigarette and huddles by the open window to smoke it. Now that he thinks of it, Arthur’s a bit late getting home from work, though he hasn’t been particularly busy lately.

And, now that he thinks of it, Curt’s not sure _Arthur_ would want to go back to England, either.

He has almost finished the cigarette when Arthur steps back into the living room, slouching in the doorway as if he’s trying to keep out of sight. He does that, sometimes. Curt raises an eyebrow at him.

“Sorry,” Arthur begins, automatically. “This lady I’m sort of friendly with at work – her kid’s become allergic to cats, and she’s been after me to take their cat for weeks…”

Figures. Curt rolls his eyes as he lights another cigarette. So some journalist friend of Arthur’s wore him down over time until he couldn’t stand up for himself anymore. God knows it’s not hard to do. Curt has done it often enough himself, to the point of feeling a little guilty, like he should be picking on someone his own size and strength.

“I said I’d keep her a while and find someone else to take her,” Arthur explains.

“Well, why the hell isn’t your friend doing that?” Curt asks, with more force than he intended. He doesn’t like seeing people take advantage of Arthur, even if the result’s harmless enough, like it is now. _I’ll teach you to get some backbone if it’s the last fucking thing I do._

Arthur flushes, but manages a smile.

“She was – and she decided that I need a pet cat, and that was it.”

“Yeah,” Curt says, drily, “you really looked like you needed some pussy. You of all people.”

Arthur laughs. Curt sniggers, too, pleased with himself even if the line _was_ handed to him on a silver platter.

“I’m sorry.” _How like Arthur_ , Curt thinks, _apologizing for things that aren’t problems._

“I won’t keep her if you don’t…”

Curt waves his hand.

“It’s fine. But if you ever walk in here with an adopted kid or something, I’m dumping your ass, okay?” He tries to sound serious, or at least pretends to. “There’s gotta be some limit.”

As if anyone would ever let guys like them adopt kids. It’s a joke between them. Arthur laughs again, says it’s a deal, and that’s that. He’s pretty good at reading Curt’s moods and laughing when Curt tries to be funny. More importantly, he doesn’t push Curt to be serious or talk about his past or what makes him _tick_ , unless Curt really wants to. They get each other better than Curt would have expected when they first started talking and then fucking and then dating and living together. Curt thinks that, on some level, Arthur gets why _partner_ and _domestic_ and shit like that are terrifying to him – just a little less terrifying than being alone – and are things that have to be warded off by joking. And it’s not like Arthur could ever want a family, either. That’s something that has driven Curt away from dating women in recent years: so many of them want kids, no matter how shitty an idea it is. Even Mandy Slade’s thinking about taking that leap with her new boyfriend. She’s talked about it like it’s her new fad, like crystal healing for everything from stress to addiction _(yeah, right_ , Curt had told her frankly over drinks) or endless nonfiction books about government UFO cover-ups, which had prompted Curt to ask her, _So, what the hell am I supposed to do about that?_ They’re in touch enough for Curt to follow Mandy’s crazy ideas and projects, although he actually hasn’t spoken with her in a while. He should give her a call one of these days.

The thought brings the smile back to Curt’s face. Keeping in touch with your ex-boyfriend’s ex-wife? _That_ is weird. Your current boyfriend sneaking an unexpected pet home? Not even close. And speaking of weird…

“Anyway,” Curt says, “I’ve got news for you. I got sidetracked by your stupid pussy.”

Arthur grows serious as Curt tells him about Marky’s phone call. Curt winces, imagining how this must be feeding Arthur’s insecurities, but unsure what else to add. _Relax. I’m not dumping you to move halfway across the world for a job I don’t particularly want…_

“Are you taking it?” Arthur asks before Curt can put his own thoughts into words. His voice is strained, the accent heavier, the way it is when he’s nervous. Curt bites his lip.

“I’m not – ” _Not leaving you_ , he thinks, but the words don’t come easily. He’s been burned too often. _Not Arthur’s fault, though…_ He focuses on lighting another cigarette.

“I don’t know if it’s for me, and – could you come with?”

There. He’s said it, sort of. He looks back at Arthur now. Some of the color has returned to his face, and Curt can see him let out a breath.

“Well, I’m still a citizen,” Arthur says, slowly, “so I could, but this is really sudden. Are you serious?”

So he _might_ go, even if his life and his work are in New York now. He’s not crazy about the _Herald_. He’s spent enough time complaining about it to Curt, as much as Arthur complains about anything, really, and has said he misses music and wishes he could focus on that. There’s no money in rock journalism, though, and he’s as bored of eighties pop shit as Curt is, which is why he hasn’t done much to change the situation. Maybe he’d find something else in London.

Then again, there might not be anything better, and England probably holds worse memories for Arthur than it does for Curt – but he hasn’t rejected the idea. He hasn’t rejected staying with Curt if Curt asks him to.

“No,” Curt admits. “Probably not.”

Arthur sits down on the sofa across from him.

“But you like the idea,” he says. “I can see it in your face. You’re interested.”

Curt shrugs. Arthur can read him, too, like an open book.

“’Like’ and ’interested’ are strong words…”

“Not against it, then. Not completely.”

“It’d be different. I dunno. Marky’s had some good ideas before, when we worked together.” Then Curt shakes his head. “But can you see me in _business_? I mean, what the hell do I know?”

“You know music,” Arthur counters. “And I don’t think you’d be alone in running the places.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not getting behind a desk to produce crap,” Curt counters.

That dry smile pulls at Arthur’s mouth. “No. But you can see what they do, at least. Not everything made in the last few years is shit, you know.”

“No.” Curt approved of some of the punk scene before that burned itself out. He liked it enough that being considered their musical godfather or grandfather or whatever was fine by him, even if it made him sound so damn _old_ , and there’s some new stuff that is – he has to admit it – cool. Punk with more contemporary technology, maybe.

He shakes his head, grinning. “Do I sound like an old guy, or what?”

The corners of Arthur’s eyes crinkle.

“Yeah, but I do too, sometimes.”

“Yeah, well.” Curt clears his throat. “I guess I have to listen to whatever Marky’s gonna send me.”

“Let me know what you think, then. And let me know if…”

He trails off. Curt wonders why.

“What?”

“Never mind,” Arthur says.

“No, what?” Curt presses him.

Arthur bites down hard on his lower lip.

“Just a joke,” he mumbles. “I was going to say it’s a shame we can’t get married – for citizenship. Make it easier for _you_ to emigrate. But it’s not funny and – impossible, so...”

Curt leans back against the window, smugly.

“Damn shame.” He’s not bristling at the joke in any way; it’s not too out of line for them. _You’re going soft. You’ll_ actually _be getting married one of these days._ “It has a nice ring to it – Arthur Wild.”

Arthur shakes his head. Curt reaches for his hand, grips it, and takes a deep slow breath to steady himself. He’s too _old_ to get butterflies in his stomach from saying something romantic or sentimental, and for fuck’s sake he’s not even being sentimental, just teasing and sarcastic. Mind you, he’s always been sappy, in his way, even with Brian. At least Arthur hasn’t expressed any interest in leaving him, which is new, for Curt. He’s too used to people leaving – or to him fucking up one way or another and driving them to leave.

Arthur leans in close and kisses Curt, gently at first, then more insistently until Curt is gripping his shoulders and kissing back, and it’s all teeth and tongue and practically falling out of their seats. When they part Curt staggers up, pulling Arthur with him.

“Come on,” he says. “I’ve been in this apartment for too long. Let’s get something to eat and drink, okay?”

Arthur nods, then gazes around the apartment.

“I hope the cat doesn’t make a mess or get hurt or something,” he murmurs.

Curt rolls his eyes before tugging him into another kiss.

*

Arthur’s work picks up in the next few days, but he makes time to pore over tapes with Curt and hang on every bit of news, and Curt knows he’ll be backstage at the two nostalgia shows Curt is playing later that week. Arthur makes no effort to get the cat off their hands, which doesn’t surprise Curt. He might be too busy, or it might be his passive-aggressive way of hinting that he wants to keep it. He’s pretty bad like that. Not half as passive-aggressive as Brian, mind you, and at least the cat business is harmless, but Arthur’s habit of not fucking _talking_ can be pretty inconvenient, in its way. Their first fight a year ago was a spectacular one that stemmed, in large part, from Arthur’s refusal to speak up when he was feeling weird about Curt paying for all their drinks and dates and things. How would Curt _know_ if Arthur didn’t say a damn thing until the problem was all blown out of proportion?

Maybe Curt’s learning, though. He assumes that Arthur is passively trying to say that he likes the cat. In this case Curt doesn’t mind either way. The cat’s not fun, like the dog Curt has suggested getting once or twice, usually when he’s drunk and giddy and overly optimistic, but it causes no problems, either. It doesn’t even do anything, except hide and sleep and presumably sneak out to eat the cat food Arthur leaves in the kitchen.

The first time Curt plays his guitar since Arthur brought the animal home, he sees it leap out of his closet at the first chord and tear out of the bedroom like a bat out of hell. Its speed startles Curt; he drops the guitar pick, jerks his hand backward, away from the fleeing blur, and bashes his elbow hard against the night table.

“ _Ow_ ,” he mutters, rubbing his elbow and blinking. “Fuck. Ow.” Then: “Arthur, look what you _did_ …”

Arthur, however, has left to do a late interview. Curt remembers after the fact, stops complaining to nobody, and goes back to his playing. He’s not sure how the two stripped down shows will go – not sure about the lineup, or the crazy idea of giving old hits ( _classics,_ they say) an acoustic twist.

He’s right not to expect much. The first show on the Thursday night is lame. There’s no other way to put it. The crowd’s all right, probably diehard fans or young ones who missed his so-called prime, but the venue’s acoustics are a godawful mess even though the sound check seemed okay. Curt sounds weak, pathetic. He hates it but can’t manage to sing or scream or play loudly enough to be heard, damn it, until he’s tempted to throw away his guitar or microphone and walk off the stage in the middle. He would have as little as two or three years ago.

This time he doesn’t. The set’s short enough for him to wait it out, thankfully. When it’s over, Arthur doesn’t even try to stop him cursing out the venue’s staff.

“Could they do anything?” Arthur asks when Curt joins him in the cab outside the performers’ entrance.

Curt scowls at his cigarette and shakes his head. His throat aches from singing and shouting – not even at the _real_ sound guy, who wasn’t around tonight, just some stand in who didn’t know fuck all– and, probably, from all his smoking, too. Maybe he should get out of this business.

“They said their usual guy’s sick tonight, and that I should come back and talk to the goddamn manager tomorrow…”

“Will you?” Arthur asks.

“I fucking have to, don’t I?” Curt says, with an edge in his voice. “Since I’m stuck playing here tomorrow night.”

Arthur goes quiet. From the corner of his eye Curt can see him put a hand to his mouth, to chew his nails like he often does, probably, but he resists and collects himself.

“You know,” Arthur tries again, “tonight wasn’t some – catastrophe, alright? _You_ were fine, and the audience – ”

“Drop it,” Curt snaps.

As he stares pointedly out the window, he imagines that he can _feel_ Arthur’s tired look, as if the expression has physical force. _Maybe he has a point_ , he thinks. After a few minutes he relents and reaches for Arthur’s hand on the seat of the cab. Arthur takes it, although the ride home is mostly silent.

He’s up early the next day, or early by his standards, to see the manager after all. What choice does he have? He’s calmer now, so it’s more of a performance than a real rage, a bit contrived. Still, he makes enough of a fuss that the guy promises him everything he wants – especially a proper, experienced sound man at the second show.

“All I want’s for things to fucking _work,_ okay? You want Curt Wild stripped down, acoustic, fine, I’ll try it, but make sure people can hear me without your shit PA system garbling it all…”

And that gets him results. Sometimes it’s a _fun_ role to play – himself, only, exaggerated and _deliberate_ (he should try the same trick with their landlord, who hasn’t yet turned the heat on for the building) – and he’s considerably more optimistic on the way home. Not completely; he’s still mulling over Marky’s offer, but what sort of farewell would his last few gigs be? Quiet, stripped down, acoustic musings on old hits? _Out like a lamb…_ It’s not like him. Then again, he knows people like Jack Fairy and even Brian himself who alternated stints behind a desk with performing. The problem is he’s not sure about it for himself _._

Arthur calls him from work. Curt’s loving and flirty, and wants to keep Arthur on the line even after they’re both out of things to say: their way of smoothing over last night’s awkwardness. Arthur sounds genuinely hopeful about tonight, which makes Curt roll his eyes even as he relaxes against the wall, twisting the phone cord in his hands.

“So… what are you doing before the show?” Arthur asks. It’s the second or third time in this one call that he’s asking a variation of _what are you doing?_

“Having lunch,” Curt says. “And sound check, and I need to get more cigarettes. I should give Marky a call, too.”

“You’ve made a decision?”

Curt can picture Arthur’s mouth opening in surprise and slight alarm.

“Nope.”

When Curt’s decisive, that’s it; there’s no stopping him until he has gotten what he wants, or realized it’s such a shitty idea that even he has to abort it. But when he’s indecisive, he _knows_ he gets like a little kid, all “nope” and “fuck it” and “whatever”. Arthur’s good enough not to tease him too much.

“I guess I’ll string him along some more.”

“I figured,” Arthur says. Curt imagines the knowing twist of his mouth. “But if you do call him, mind the time difference.”

“I _know_ that.”

A pause. Arthur still considers himself the expert on all things British or Transatlantic, even though he doesn’t keep in touch with anyone except his mother, a few times a year; he has never tried reaching out to his father or brother, which makes sense. Anyway, as Curt has told him, as far as talking to your family goes, one of three’s not bad – though it may be one of five or six now, with the sister-in-law and the niece or two he has never met.

“Should I meet you at the venue?” Arthur asks, bringing Curt back to reality.

“Yeah,” Curt says. “I think that’s the easiest. I’ll see you tonight, ok?”

He tries to think of some excuse to keep Arthur on the phone longer, only, there isn’t that much to say, and Arthur usually doesn’t have much free time at work. Curt lets him go, reluctantly. Then he reaches for a cigarette, finds the pack in his pocket empty, and heads to the kitchen to find his last new pack and make some sort of lunch. The cat is up, much to his surprise. The animal’s too absorbed in stalking, then eating a spider on the floor to run away from Curt. That’s kind of useful, at least. Curt watches the animal. It – _she_ , as Arthur likes to remind him – is a quiet, small, dark gray thing with black stripes on the tail and nowhere else. The colours remind Curt of one of Arthur’s sweaters. He smiles to himself. _Sappy._ He’ll have to mention this to Arthur, who has tried without much success to lure the cat out where he could pet her and show her to Curt.

Then Curt is scarfing down yesterday’s leftover pizza in between puffs of his cigarette and off to the venue for sound check, telling himself that he can always call Marky tomorrow.

*

The show’s much better tonight. _Infinitely_ better, in fact. Curt loses the guardedness he’d had last night and that’s so uncharacteristic of him. Tonight he’s primal and passionate, but clearly audible and wry, too, when it feels right to introduce old songs with deadpan comments. He catches the delight in the audience’s faces when they cheer or sing along and he gives as good as he ever did, just a little more grown up, and claps his arm warmly around Jim, his one backup musician, when he introduces him to the crowd. They even do two encore pieces, including something that’s new and that he and Jim had worked on in the last few weeks on the off chance Curt would feel like sharing it. The crowd eats it right up. Curt almost doesn’t want to leave, in stark contrast to last night. He alternates between giving the crowd the finger and actually blowing the occasional kiss at the end of it. They clap and clap.

“Much better,” Jim says afterwards, stating the obvious. Curt takes him, his girlfriend Lucy, and, of course, Arthur for a drink near the venue. The place is nice without being too trendy or too pretentious, and crowded enough for Curt to be recognized and admired _occasionally_ without it getting, well, oppressive. Something about the place is kind of old-fashioned in a way that reminds Curt of British pubs, which may be part of why Arthur likes it, too.

“You think?” Curt says. There’s no anger in him, though, no snappishness. He’s calmly knocking back a whisky when he catches Arthur’s eye in the mirror above the counter. “You were good, too, Jim. It was really – different – but I’m glad you had my back.”

“No problem.”

Arthur edges closer to Curt and puts his hand on his arm, hesitantly.

“I know I’m biased,” he says, “but you could do anything you wanted in this field. Really.”

Curt catches his eye. That’s a lot for Arthur to say all at once, and in front of other people, even friends of Curt’s. Curt’s mouth twitches. _Maybe not_ anything _,_ he thinks. Still, it was kind of Arthur to say – _that’s what I keep you around for_ – and Curt _is_ pleased with tonight’s show, especially compared to yesterday’s fuck up.

“Thanks,” Curt murmurs. There’s more that he wants to say – about Arthur’s encouragement and his gratitude, and about the whole stripped down, grown up tone of the performance – but he can’t get into that now, because Jim’s girlfriend has to cut in to offer her rock criticism.

“I liked that new song you did,” Lucy says from her seat at Jim’s other side. She’s kind of dumb; her tone, and her intrusion on Arthur, who’s obviously much more important, make Curt scowl. To be fair to her, she’s usually quiet, and lets Jim and Curt do their thing without intruding too much. She and Jim seem superficially a little like Curt and Arthur, only, when she’s quiet, it hides her shallowness, nothing like the intensity Arthur has lurking below the surface.

“Great,” Curt mutters. “Always love a critic…”

He sees Jim’s face darken, but can’t help himself, and anyway, Lucy’s still sitting there smiling, like she doesn’t even get it. She probably doesn’t. Curt can’t help himself, but he was very mild.

“Do you think you two’ll record it?” Arthur asks, trying to break up the tension. _Always the diplomatic one_ , Curt thinks.

“If I get the chance,” Curt says, thinking of Marky’s crazy job offer, and tapping his foot against the base of the bar stool. It’s one of the habits he hasn’t quite lost, even though he’s no longer the riot of nervous movement and energy he once was. In its place he’s stabler, healthier for sure, and, apparently, better at the whole subtle, deadpan sarcasm thing.

“I hope you do,” Lucy says. She sounds sincere, so Curt softens and acknowledges her with a nod. Then he grins and orders another round. Arthur is watching him quizzically. He’d been one step away from kicking Curt under the counter before, Curt could tell, but some residual pride and happiness are surging in Curt, and instead of antagonizing Lucy just because he can, he turns to Arthur instead, gives him his best boyish shrug, and kisses him.

He thinks Lucy makes some noise of muffled shock or disapproval. Jim’s seen Curt and Arthur together before, so he shouldn’t be bothered – not that Curt really cares. He tunes them out, tunes out the whole fucking bar, in fact, and puts his hand to Arthur’s cheek as he kisses him recklessly. Arthur kisses back for a second or two before stiffening. It’s too public for him, which might have annoyed Curt under other circumstances, but he knows Arthur, and can’t totally blame him given the time they’re living in. He drops his hand to let Arthur go, pouting. Arthur reaches for Curt’s knee under the table, apologetically. Maybe reassuringly. Curt half jerks away from the touch, but changes his mind.

“Jim, how late is it?” Lucy is asking, tugging at her boyfriend’s arm. Curt hadn’t realized how awkward things have gotten until he hears the tightness in her voice. He grits his teeth, thinking that it would be nice to get to talk to some of his friends without partners and families getting in the way. He wouldn’t mind Lucy leaving to relieve the babysitter or whatever, but he knows from experience that she’ll probably drag Jim with her when she goes.

“It’s a quarter after one,” Arthur says.

“Oh, Jesus, Jim,” Lucy whines. “We should go. At least, I should go.” Predictably, she adds, “I can’t ask the babysitter to stay so late.”

Curt can’t hide his scoff. This time, Arthur does kick him, gently, beneath the counter. Curt glares at him before realising, or sensing, that Jim is looking to him for a response.

"I think we'll go..." Jim says. _Asking for_ my _approval,_ Curt thinks, his grimace turning into a smirk.

"Man, you don't have to ask my permission," he teases. "If you have to keep grandpa hours, that's not my problem."

Jim rolls his eyes. For a moment Curt thinks he's going to punch him in the arm like a kid in grade school.

"I spent enough time with you this week," Jim counters. "Thanks for the drinks. Let me know if we're going back into the studio someday."

Curt makes a face. _I might be. Not in the way you think, though._ He hasn’t told Jim about the job offer. It has seemed too unreal, too impossible.

"Sure," he mutters. "Goodnight."

Arthur stands up to get Lucy's coat. She gives him an awkward nod before taking Jim’s hand and guiding him toward the door. Curt watches his friend leaving for a second or two, before turning back to the counter. He rummages in his jeans pocket for his cigarettes and his lighter and lights one roughly as Arthur takes his seat beside Curt. Curt says nothing. Instead he clutches the cigarette in one hand and tears at the bar napkin with the fingers of his other, a sense of unease or something like it settling on him, sucking the happiness from him. Loneliness, maybe: his friends and bandmates growing up or pretending to and trying to leave him behind, like Jim with his kid and Marky with the studio job and, now, with whatever else he’s moving on to.

Not that Curt envies them. He wouldn’t want to be tied down like Jim and Lucy are in a million years. Maybe the problem is that he’s drifting, which is boring, and not something he’s comfortable with. Maybe it _is_ time to do something drastically different.

“You okay?” Arthur asks.

Curt gives another shrug.

“Fine,” he says, jiggling his leg against the counter. “It’s just us now, huh?”

Arthur’s hand settles on the crook of Curt’s arm. He hesitates before replying.

“That’s all right. Isn’t it?”

Curt is dimly aware of Arthur’s insecurities, and dimly aware that he shouldn’t have said it like it was a problem, like Arthur isn’t enough for him. He’d been thinking almost the exact opposite and hiding his face from Arthur out of fear that Arthur would see the scared, needy look there and recognize whatever feeling has made Curt’s pulse quicken and his stomach sink. He has _never_ done well alone and if he didn’t have Arthur, he’d probably be in as bad a place as he has ever been in.

“’Course not,” Curt says. His voice is hoarse; he has to clear his throat before continuing, but when he does, he sounds more like himself again. “Even if you don’t kiss me in public.”

Arthur’s grip on Curt’s arm tightens, but there’s another hesitation before he answers.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur says softly.

Curt bites down hard on his lip. This is a shit time to pick a fight. It’s the kind of thing he _used_ to do all the time – start a fight when he realized he was feeling loving and needy, as if driving people away would help him. He likes to think he’s learned since then.

“Never mind,” he says. “If you’re not comfortable, then screw being in public. Let’s go home.”

He looks up and around for the bartender to get the bill, and relaxes a little when he sees the smile return to Arthur’s face, confused, but genuine.

Arthur finds enough nerve to make out with Curt in the cab, with Curt’s encouragement, of course. It’s not that Curt doesn’t understand Arthur’s reticence in public. They’ve both been through enough shit for being queer, and the world never improves much in that respect, so Arthur’s hands down the smarter of the two of them. But there’s a lot to be said for _not_ being smart or safe or discreet, especially when Curt is suddenly hot and half-hard almost as soon as he and Arthur kiss behind the driver’s back. Arthur works his hand down towards Curt’s ass and Curt sucks and licks at his lips, and darts his tongue between them, feeling Arthur’s soft, barely repressed laugh as they pull each other closer between the leather seat back and the car door. Curt’s cock is straining against his pants, now. He has to stifle a groan when Arthur breaks away from him and cranes his neck to see if, or how, the cab driver’s reacting. Curt hisses instead, needy and resentful; he bites at Arthur’s throat in protest – thinks, _To hell with what some cabbie would say_ – and puts one hand to Arthur’s flushed face to tug him back. Arthur gives a small moan as he turns to Curt, just as needy. They resume their bruising kiss. Between the warmth and the joy and the aching, amazing hardness, Curt is impatient, rough; it seems like they’ll never get back to their apartment.

It’s _such_ a relief when they do. They drag each other up the stairs and into the bedroom, hands grasping and tugging off jackets and shirts and jeans, and tongues deep in each other’s mouths.

*

Fucking usually helps Curt sleep afterwards. In fact, sex is one of the few things that does help him get to sleep, now that he can no longer drug himself into calming down. He thinks – but never admits it, in any of his relationships – that having a lover’s weight and warmth near him on the bed helps, too, and Arthur’s as good as anyone Curt has ever been with. Maybe better, more comforting or more trustworthy.

At any rate, Curt’s sleeping soundly when the damn cat decides it’s lonely or whatever and starts to cry. The plaintive noise wakes Curt. He starts, mutters a curse in a hoarse voice, blinks his eyes and clenches his fist beneath the blanket because, damn it, sleeping is _hard_ for him, and where the fuck is Arthur?

Then the animal gives another wail. Curt winces in sympathy. For a moment he feels like he’s a kid again, young enough to be living at home in the trailer park where his family once kept dogs – badly and carelessly. What the hell else would you expect, from Curt’s family?

He opens his eyes at last, properly.

Arthur is already leaving the bedroom, dressed in the faded gray sweatshirt and pajama pants he sleeps in when the apartment is freezing, as it is now. Curt watches him leave before dragging himself into a sitting position. No wonder the bed felt so much colder and emptier. The chill air pricks his skin. He ignores the feeling, fumbles on the night table for a cigarette, lights one, and starts to smoke it. Gradually he realizes that the cat has stopped crying. Arthur still doesn’t come back, though, so Curt gets up grudgingly, pulls on his discarded jeans, and heads out of the room.

He finds Arthur leaning back on the couch with his eyes shut and the cat in his lap. Curt would think he was sleeping except that he’s still stroking the animal’s fur rhythmically. Curt’s mouth twitches. So – cozy? Domestic? Parental, even, only with the cat instead of a kid, and thank Christ for that. _Nice of him to worry about it, though._ He can imagine the headlines if anyone saw them together now, Arthur looking so, well, domestic and Curt doting on him when he can’t see, a picture of marital bliss with their spoiled pet. _The new Curt Wild and his secret soft spot for nice guys…_

He clears his throat. His resentment at waking up has faded, for the most part.

“Will I always be competing with a cat for you?” he jokes. “You know. From now on?”

Arthur opens his eyes and raises an eyebrow. He stretches out one arm, then the other, careful not to knock the cat off his lap.

“Well,” he answers, slow and teasing, “she’s really soft and you’re – prickly. You’ve got the whole musician temper thing going on.”

“Oh?” Curt asks, feigning innocence, the single syllable dripping with sarcasm.

He can see Arthur fighting a grin. “Nearly started a row making fun of your friend’s girlfriend–”

“I can’t help it; she’s _dumb_ ,” Curt says, all in a rush. They’ve had this conversation before, though; he’s not really upset. “And she’s not very – comfortable with us. With you. _I_ don’t think, anyway.”

Arthur appears absorbed in stroking the cat. Curt can hear it purring.

“Yeah, well, you might not be _completely_ wrong,” Arthur murmurs. “I’ll give you that. But still.” Back to teasing, now. “You throw ashtrays, too, sometimes. Cats can’t throw things.”

Arthur cuddles the cat closer. Curt sits down on the coffee table across from him and reaches for his free hand.

“Aw, come on, baby,” he says, caressing Arthur’s fingers. “I only did that once. And it wasn’t at you – I wouldn’t do that – or _about_ you, or anything. I even cleaned up the mess.”

“Yeah,” Arthur says, his eyes sparkling, “ _after_ a couple days.”

He moves his head to kiss Curt. Curt drops what’s left of his cigarette in the ashtray and leans in closer to Arthur, nearly falling from his impractical seat on the coffee table as the cat wriggles away from them both. Arthur helps him onto the sofa instead.

“I _am_ sorry she woke you,” he says, gesturing toward the cat. “When I have time I’ll find someone to take her off our hands.”

Curt snorts. He twists in his seat to face Arthur.

“No, you won’t. Anyway, it’s fine. I don’t mind.”

“You sure?”

Curt pauses dramatically, as if he has to think hard about his response.

“Not really. I mean, a guy with a cat – it’s kind of gay, but…”

And Arthur bursts into such loud giggles that Curt doesn’t even have to finish his sentence. Arthur’s sexy when he giggles. His face lights up, making him seem particularly young and happy, and he’ll swallow hard to try to stop because he gets nervous when he’s too open about laughing. The movement’s always something of a turn on for Curt to watch, the same way it’s a turn on to watch Arthur work his throat around some burning alcoholic drink, then throw his head back as the taste and the feeling hit him when he swallows. No wonder Curt got so moody over drinks tonight. He can chalk it up to being distracted from watching Arthur, and having to miss out on his boyfriend for a bit.

They kiss again. When they part Curt finds himself squinting because the first rays of the rising sun are in his eyes.

“Let’s watch the sunrise together,” he says, impulsively. “I can make drinks. We can fuck again after.”

Arthur gives a slow shake of his head. “Not like you, delaying gratification…”

“It’s _romantic_ ,” Curt insists. He’s invested in the idea now – or rather, he can’t give up this soon, this easily – and besides, he thinks he needs a bit more of a refractory period. Damn getting old bullshit. It’s not fair. “We’ve never watched a sunrise before.”

They probably did once, ten, eleven years ago, from a rooftop in what seems like another world. Arthur was pretty much just a kid then, and Curt was a strung-out, world famous, bigger kid with eight years on Arthur and what seemed like a lifetime of issues to overcome or at least survive.

Curt’s face warms a little at that weird, sentimental feeling of well-being. He feels like he’s come _home_ somehow, and he doesn’t mean New York, either. Home could be a flat in London, too, if Arthur’s all right with going back and if Curt decides to take that plunge.

Then it hits him. He’ll tell Marky that he’ll only take the job if they find something for Arthur, too, like a publicist position. He doesn’t know why it took him this long, but it could make things much easier, if he _does_ take Marky up on his offer – not that he’s committing to it yet. But Curt knows he can make Mark give him what he wants, in order to get Curt. He’s good at that; he’ll be able to insist on something for Arthur. _And I’ll make them figure out how Arthur can drag his pet cat across the Atlantic, too._ The hardest part will be convincing Arthur that it’s okay for Curt to do him favours – even get him a job or support him for a while – but he can do that, too. He’ll wear Arthur down over time, if he has to, like Arthur’s work friend who pawned off her cat on them.

“Sure,” Arthur says, breaking into Curt’s thoughts. “But make coffee instead, so I don’t sleep through your sunrise.”

“Coffee,” Curt mutters, drily. Choosing coffee over alcohol _is_ a bit lame, like getting old or staying home and doing sappy, romantic shit with your partner. Then again, Curt always was something of a romantic, and he is getting older whether he likes it or not. He’s also alive, as healthy as he’s ever likely to be, and not alone anymore. He could have done a lot worse.

“Well, you got that posh coffee machine,” Arthur reminds him, rolling his eyes. “And I wanted to go back to sleep too, you know; I’m doing this for you.”

“Fine,” Curt says, yawning. Maybe they _will_ end up dozing through his half-assed watch the sunrise plan, coffee or no coffee. Maybe they’ll fall asleep for a bit on the couch with gourmet, slightly yuppie coffee getting cold on the table in front of them, then wake up and make out lazily before working their way up to sex – hopefully without the dumb cat watching them, because that’s just weird.

Curt squeezes Arthur’s hand before getting up to turn the coffee maker on, and when he does, he still glances at Arthur from across the room with obvious and, probably, very uncool warmth. Still, call him sentimental or lame or whatever, but he has reached a point where he can think of much worse ways to spend a not-quite-morning.


End file.
